The 84th Hunger Games: Not a Fairy Tale
by JuneTwentieth
Summary: Poisoned apples. Glass slippers. It's been one decade since the Nightlock Rebellion was sparked by a handful of berries- or so the Capitol likes to say. This year, 24 tributes will be fighting for their lives inside an arena based on a certain old storybook. But the Hunger Games aren't a fairy tale. Dedicated to Hip Hoprock of the 42nd and Saffron Le Bel of the 43rd, by Hoprocker.
1. Preface

_A/N: Okay, here are my requirements._

_One, I'll accept two twelve-year-olds and one thirteen-year-old at most, or two thirteen-year-olds and one twelve-year-old. Two, any Sues or Stus will be killed in training. They're not making it to the Games. If they get in at all, which is unlikely._

_Three, no volunteering for a relative or friend or because it's out of the goodness of a tribute's heart. Four, you can submit as many tributes as you like, but I will accept three at most._

_Five, be detailed. I will not accept any tribute form that's just a random string of adjectives pushed together. I expect complete sentences, and you have to use my form. Six, I'm following the rules. You may only submit tributes by PM. PM me for the form._

_Seven, I need eight bloodbaths, and if I don't get them, I'll choose from accepted tributes, which would be sad. However, if your bloodbath is submitted, I expect the character to still be developed as a non-bloodbath, and be interesting- after all, bloodbaths will still go through reapings, chariots, training, and interviews._

_And eight, be creative. I don't own the Hunger Games._

* * *

**The Eighty-fourth Annual Hunger Games**

* * *

_It's not a fairy tale._

_The Capitol, Control Room, 7:04 PM_

"You're basing the arena off of this..." The Gamemaker looked utterly lost as she stared at the book, which had a purple velvet cover.

"Storybook," Christelle Cambria supplied. She was the Head Gamemaker, and had been for exactly one year. "Before this place was Panem, in the days of North America, people told stories to their children. About princesses. Knights. All that ridiculous nonsense. They called them fairy tales, and wrote them down in this book."

It had been exactly ten years since the Nightlock Rebellion was started by a handful of berries. Christelle knew that people would be remembering the Seventy-fourth Games today, and she had to make sure this year's Games were brutal. One decade since the Girl on Fire first volunteered for her sister, Christelle remembered. It seemed more like a mere day since that savage rebellion the districts had thrown against the Capitol.

Azura Woods, the mentioned Gamemaker, flipped through several pages of the book, skimming the heavy, expensive pages, and picked up the luscious red apple sitting beside it, turning it over and over in her hands. "This...poisoned apple," Azura said uncertainly. "One half is poisoned, and the other pure?"

"Yes," Christelle said. "From that dimwitted story about Snow White, with the evil queen and Prince Charming."

Azura continued to turn over and over the apple, inspecting the smooth surface. It was solid and juicy, surely a wonderful snack for any starving tributes in the arena. She smiled. "Excellent," she said. "Wonderful idea. Basing the arena off all those fairy tales- I'm sure President Linnaeus Sunn will love it."

Christelle sighed. "To tell the truth, I think Ryver Snow was a better president than Linnaeus. Though Gracieux Northwood would never measure up to me, I have to admit that Gamemaker did ensure the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games was an interesting year."

"Yes, it was," Azura agreed, brushing her long, pale fingers over the round fruit. "But Christelle, what does the arena look like, exactly?" The other Gamemakers chorused in agreement over their curiosity.

Christelle smiled. "I thought you'd never ask." In one smooth movement, she pulled something out from under the huge table. It was a tall metal post with signs made of artificial wood on it, contrasting shaprly with the clean white room. The signs had arrows on them, pointing in different directions.

Christelle gestured to the post, which was about twice her size. "Look, I've divided the arena into different sections, and gave them names. Over here, for example-" She pointed to the top sign. "-indicates the apple orchard, where these apples right here will be planted. This post will be positioned near the Cornucopia. Multiple signs like this will indicate each area, and the tributes can choose. Of course, none of them have ever read a fairy tale." She smiled cruelly. "They won't have a happy ending."

She was interrupted when the youngest Gamemaker, a twenty-year-old girl named Tiger Lily Fox, rushed in. Her hair was disheveled, as if she'd just woken up, and she had a wild light in her eyes. The door slammed shut with a loud bang.

"What?" Christelle barked sharply, displeased.

"I have the tribute list, ma'am!" Tiger Lily panted. A wrinkled piece of paper was in her hand. Christelle wrinkled her nose and accepted it, and her fellow Gamemakers huddled around to see the list.

District One  
F: Lolita "Loli" Versacci (14)  
M: Damian Nimbus Mykal (18)

District Two  
F: Vanth "Vanitas" Helix (17)  
M: Lysander "Sander" Caverly (18)

District Three  
F: Brinn Copperfield (15)  
M: Casper Odin (16)

District Four  
F: Cymopoleia "Cymo" Blue Wavea (16)  
M: Ceres Sometimes (18)

District Five  
F: Irena Blink (16)  
M: Jakob "Jake" Wilhelm (15)

District Six  
F: Clover Legion (18)  
M: Damacio Garek (15)

District Seven  
F: Soirora Eloitz (15)  
M: Wyborne Bailey Jr. (12)

District Eight  
F: Yuu Kazuki Trieze (17)  
M: Xader "Zel" Zhelgholzchiks (17)

District Nine  
F: Thalia "Tali" Noveria (17)  
M: Joshua Roger Freeman (12)

District Ten  
F: Rosaline "Rosie" Osmund (14)  
M: Samuel Korvin (16)

District Eleven  
F: Theodora Smythe (16)  
M: Cedar Swallow (18)_  
_

District Twelve  
F: Odette "Duck" Meyers (15)  
M: Levi Zeos (14)

The Gamemakers finished reading around the same time and automatically fixed their eyes expectantly on Christelle for her opinion.

"I can't say anything yet by names and ages," Christelle said cautiously. But then a small smirk crossed her lips. "But the tributes don't matter. The Eighty-fourth Hunger Games will still be the best."

The Gamemakers chorused agreement.

As each Gamemaker drifted out of the room, one by one, their work done for the day, Christelle reread the tribute list. She looked up, speaking coldly to someone that wasn't there.

"Watch out, my dear tributes. The Games aren't a fairy tale."

* * *

_A/N: If you've already forgotten the rules, go back up and reread the previous author's note. This is NOT first come first serve, and I prefer tributes that haven't been recycled a dozen times. I'll probably add filler chapters to keep this updated. Don't forget to add details! Details details details detailsdetailsdetailsdetails detailsdetailsdetails-_

_Er, right. Details. I just realised the arena seems kind of like Disneyland. And remember, you have to use my form. After seeing submissions without my form, I'm a bit irritated. You have to use the form I give you, or else you won't be accepted. End of story. Oh, yes, and reservations last only 36 hours. The times I display for reserved spots may not come the same time due to different time zones, but I'll take the reservation off as soon as possible when time is up._

_-Priscilla Xandri Silver_


	2. The Mellarks

_A/N: Ahh, this is just a filler chapter to keep this updated. And so you can get a taste of my writing. Also, to explain the aftermath of the Nightlock Rebellion, as I always call the second rebellion. Just so you know, I haven't read Mockingjay. But the epilogue did indeed happen, despite what Christelle claimed about this being a decade after the 74th. The Capitol just likes to pretend the fifteen years of Paylor's reign didn't exist._

_Also, I'll repeat this over and over again. You have to use my form. You have to be detailed. You have to follow my rules. I will list all nine rules every A/N I write if that's what it takes and reinforce them with a flamethrower. __And details! Details details details. _

_You can go overboard, use all 8,000 characters in a PM if you'll give details. Also, I've created a tenth rule. You have to follow every requirement in the first A/N of the preface. No exceptions. Even if your tribute is fantastic and unique and has never been seen before, if they disregard my rules, they are not getting in._

_Oh, yes, concerning reservations, if I refuse to accept a tribute before their reservation is up, I'll remove the reservation early. Also, please vote for my poll on my profile page on whether I should write the Games in first person or third person. Also, my sponsor system is now on my profile page._

_I don't own the Hunger Games._

* * *

**The Eighty-fourth Annual Hunger Games**

* * *

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_District Twelve, Nightlock Cemetery, 8:11 PM_

A woman, about twenty years old, darted in and out of the shadows warily, weaving through alleyways. Her long black hair was tied back in a side braid, her azure blue eyes as serious as her mother's. She carefully opened the wrought iron gate she was looking for and winced at the loud _creak_ it made, but slipped in. As usual, no Peacekeepers hustled into the cemetery.

Primrose Mellark's eyes roamed the cemetery. Fifth row, third gravestone. Her eyes lit up as she strode toward it. She touched the gravestone with her fingertips, setting down a bouquet of wildflowers, as she did every night before the reaping.

"Mom, Dad," she murmured sadly. "I missed you." She ran her fingers over the chipped marble. Her parents had deserved better than this, better than watching every loved one they had be tortured to death and then burned alive. The Girl on Fire- how ironic.

_Well, not every loved one_, Primrose thought. The children of the Mellarks had gotten away, hadn't they? It wasn't as if the Capitol actually knew they existed. They hadn't gotten ahold of DNA records or anything. Due to the fact the Capitol wasn't aware the Mellarks had children at all, by some miracle, Primrose and her brother had managed to get away. They'd escaped the reapings, too.

Primrose knelt by the gravestone. Her parents weren't actually buried there- Primrose had a living as a baker, like her father had, and it was enough to buy a gravestone and place it in Nightlock Cemetery in honor of Katniss and Peeta.

Originally, there hadn't even been a cemetery in District Twelve. But it had been built on top of the Meadow- the Meadow where an innocent young girl used to go and play with her little brother- as a reminder to the dead rebels. The electric fence still was on twenty-four-seven, like District Twelve couldn't reach the rebels, either. Primrose usually climbed a tree and then leapt across the fence from the branch. She'd broken her ankle more than a dozen times, and she still had to drag herself up another tree to get across the fence again. But Primrose would do it for her parents.

A figure melted out of the shadows- an eighteen-year-old kid with short blonde hair and gray eyes. Gale Mellark.

_We're just reminders, the namesakes of people our parents cared about_, Primrose thought, but there was no bitterness in it. She ran her hands over the bumpy surface of the gravestone.

"You don't get anything out of sentimentality, you know," Gale said quietly.

"It's not sentimentality, Gale! This is our parents!"

Gale sighed and joined Primrose. "Fifteen years of Paylor, and then the Capitol acts like they never happened. A quarter century since the berries. Or a decade. Whatever."

_Stop holding back your feelings before you explode like a volcano in a torrent of emotion, _Primrose thought resentfully_. Holding yourself together like you don't even care will backfire._ Things were frigid between her brother and her these days. But Gale and Primrose only had each other, after all.

Primrose could feel the presence of ghosts in the cemetery, whispering to her. She didn't feel afraid. She wasn't sure she cared. The wind was whispering one of her favourite songs- "The Hanging Tree."

_Is life really worth it?_ she wondered.

She finally came back to her senses and jumped up, startling her brother. "Come on," she said shortly. "Let's leave. I've had enough time here."

She could feel tension in the cemetery- bitter ghosts wanting her to die.

But she didn't feel afraid. As she strode out the gate, a confused Gale following her, she called back- "Mom, Dad, see you next year. I'll miss you."

_Are you, are you,_  
_Coming to the tree_  
_Where they strung up a man they say murdered three?_  
_Strange things did happen here_  
_No stranger would it seem_  
_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

* * *

_A/N: Oh, yes, and I'd also like to apologise if you've made a reservation and 36 hours have not passed, and the reservation is not displayed on the tribute list. I'm bad at organizing things and have probably lost track of all these reservations. And Parris, no, you do not get any special treatment, but the D4 girl has been reserved for you._

_Oh, and how reservations work is if you submit a form for a spot that has been reserved, I wait for the form from the reservation to arrive. I decide which tribute that has been submitted for the spot is better then. If I want to accept both, I move a tribute to a different district._

_-Priscilla Xandri Silver_


	3. The Odairs

_A/N: Last chapter, the Mellarks were introduced. Who's coming next? Annie's and Finnick's child. I never read Mockingjay, so I don't actually know anything about him. Also, I'm editing the sponsor system because everything's too cheap. Again, this chapter's a filler, to keep this updated until I can begin the reapings. Um, actually it's just so I have something to write. Otherwise, I wouldn't update on the same day I did for the Mellarks._

_Also, if you submitted a tribute or plan to, I demand you go back to the preface and reread the rules. Right now. I don't think I have one form that doesn't break one of the rules and soon I will get my flamethrower._

_I don't own the Hunger Games._

* * *

**The Eighty-fourth Annual Hunger Games**

* * *

_Nightlock, nightlock, nightlock._

_District Four, 7:04 A.M._

"Finnick, it's breakfast- what are you doing?"

Finnick Odair II was so startled he dropped the dark, round berries in his hand. They dropped to the ground, rolling across the carpet of moss of his backyard, which was overgrown with vines and weeds. His wife, Sinead Golde-Odair, sighed from the doorway of the house.

"Not again. Finnick-"

"It's the day of the reaping," he said.

"Yes, I know it's the day of the reaping, but that's not an excuse to go scoop up some nightlock. You're twenty-five years old already, and you have a kid to take care of." Sinead flicked a strand of curly chocolate brown hair out of her sea green eyes.

"A kid who's going to be reaped," he muttered, thinking of his parents, Finnick and Annie.

"You mean Rue," Sinead stated plainly. Annie Cresta had planned to name her baby girl that if she ever had one. "Finnick, she's only five. She's not eligible for the reaping yet."

Sinead looked at Finnick's bitter expression. Sinead had never even met Finnick Odair, but he was the spitting image of his father, with the same good looks- sea green eyes, bronze hair, tanned skin. She'd seen pictures. But there were deep purple circles under her husband's eyes. He seemed dull and tired.

_I'm the only strand that connects him to sanity_, she thought, feeling a protective surge of hatred. The Capitol had done this to him. They were trying to drive him mad. Money was hard to come by these days, though perhaps not as hard as it would be in District Twelve.

"She will be," Finnick said furiously.

Sinead sighed and took his hands in hers. She could feel scars crisscrossing his skin and flinched. The Capitol had inflicted those on him, too- let Annie Cresta see her son tortured for days before she was finally executed, slowly and painfully. Annie would never even know if her son's torture had stopped. The only reason Finnick was alive at all was because he didn't want to be, and the Capitol wouldn't let him have that.

And they were playing games with Sinead- knowing she wanted him alive too, knowing that she would try to keep Finnick from committing suicide. She had to go along with their plans.

"Finnick-"

"They're watching me," Finnick said angrily. "Always watching-"

"They're trying to drive you insane."

"Well, they're sure as hell succeeding!"

"Finnick, listen to me-"

"AHHHHH!" They were cut off by the shrill scream of their daughter. Sinead's eyes widened. She left Finnick almost immediately, her eyebrows shooting up in alarm.

Her daughter was kicking up the sheets, whimpering in terror. Her eyes were squeezed shut. She had long bronze ringlets, sea green eyes, and a tanned complexion, with Sinead's smile.

"Shh, honey," Sinead said, relieved to see her child was okay. "You'll be all right, you'll be all right..."

"I got reaped," Rue whimpered quietly, her tiny little fists clenched. "They picked my name...they picked it..."

"Sweetheart, you'll be all right. You won't get reaped. I promise."

"Katniss Everdeen."

Finnick was standing in the doorway. Sinead hadn't realised he'd followed her. She kept her temper in check as Rue asked, "Who's Katniss Everdeen?"

"Just a friend your grandparents used to have," Sinead insisted gently, shooting Finnick a warning look. She tucked Rue back under her baby pink covers and kissed her forehead. "Honey, you're going to be okay. They'll never pick you. They won't. Mommy promises." She smoothed the wrinkled blankets.

"Primrose Everdeen got reaped," Finnick said quietly as soft snores came from Rue again. "I bet the Girl on Fire promised she wouldn't."

"She won't get reaped," Sinead said stubbornly. She hated being the only one in the family who was holding herself together. She could let go of the old memories that plagued Finnick and that Rue asked about all too often. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

"They'll rig the reaping," Finnick insisted.

"Finnick. We are not talking anymore. I am going to go and spray enough poison to get rid of that accursed nightlock, while you eat breakfast."

Finnick's eyes were full of dull grief. Sinead didn't pity him. Pity didn't get you anywhere- well, at least she thought so. She wanted- no, she _needed_ to get her life moving again without dealing with a...a catatonic husband and a little girl who was too curious all the time.

_No. You are strong. You have courage. Don't lose yourself._

Sinead hated the Capitol. But that hatred wasn't going to get her anywhere. She led Finnick gently to the breakfast table. As he stared vacantly at his food, she picked up a knife and went to cut off all the nightlock berries she could find- they grew like weeds around the neighborhood. She suspected the Capitol did it to play around with her, see if she was going to stop Finnick from swallowing one.

No. Nightlock was cursed, she decided. It sparkled a rebellion that sparked more misery for the districts afterwards.

Berries tumbled to the ground.

_A/N: This was less serious than the previous chapter- well, less all everyone-died. Er, scratch that. Never mind. I'm waiting until my D1-D3 spots are filled and will start reapings then._

_In a show of shameless advertising, my sister, Laugh-Read-Music-Dream, is writing a SYOT also- Jump then Fall: 21st Hunger Games. Go take a look at it!_


	4. President Sunn

_A/N: This is the last filler chapter. At least, I hope it is- I'm working on reapings now. I still need three or four bloodbaths, preferably male because the only female spot left is D2 and it's unlikely she'll die in the bloodbath. This filler will be less depressing than the previous two._

_I don't own the Hunger Games._

* * *

**The Eighty-fourth Annual Hunger Games**

* * *

_Don't you dare look out your window, darling, everything's on fire. The war outside our door keeps raging on._

_The Capitol, President Linnaeus Sunn's Mansion, 10:11 A.M._

President Linnaeus Sunn studied the paper intently, scanning sentence after sentence of pointless observations. The Ryver Snow case he found intriguing. He was President Coriolanus Snow's nephew, a man in his thirties, and the leader of the remnants of the Capitol that had gone into hiding during Paylor's reign. He'd personally assassinated Paylor. Unfortunately, he'd been unexpectedly murdered in the first year of his reign, just after the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games. Sunn had been elected shortly afterwards- he'd been his second-in-command- but eight years later, the case was still ongoing. Sunn found it useless- they'd never find the killer.

Plenty of suspicion had been set upon Pacifique Fournier, a young woman who had been one of Ryver's advisers, but so far, they'd found absolutely no evidence to pin down the twenty-four-year-old, who remained safe and sound. She'd been known to have a reputation- she had a personal vendetta against Katniss Everdeen, blaming the Mockingjay for killing her family, but Pacifique possessed no actual loyalty to the Capitol. In addition, more than one rumour concerned Sunn himself having killed Ryver Snow.

An Avox timidly set down a ceramic teacup from District One on President Sunn's polished chestnut desk. The president didn't even so much as nod in acknowledgment as the Avox walked away anxiously. He continued to study the papers when someone knocked on the door, a bit too loudly than he considered polite. He sighed and was about to call, "Come in!" when the person barged in anyway. He saw it was Tiger Lily Fox. Awfully brave of her, just charging into the president's home. He had to admire her courage. Or perhaps it was just sheer stupidity that propelled her throughout life.

"Young lady," he barked strictly. "Why are you here?"

His harsh tone didn't seem to faze Tiger Lily in the least. President Sunn felt a prick of annoyance. Tiger Lily could even be a useful person if not for her utter lack of common sense. Her brazenness would get her in trouble. Not to mention she was irritating. She was more like a child of the Gamemakers than one of them.

"Sir," Tiger Lily said. "Sir." She seemed to have run a long way. Her cheeks were flushed. She caught her breath. From what Christelle Cambria had told Linnaeus, she'd entered the Gamemakers' Control Room in a similar fashion. She stared at the president of Panem. "We've finally found Cecelia's children."

"Cecelia?" Sunn raised an eyebrow curiously. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but there had to be hundreds of Cecelias, thousands even, in Panem.

"The victor from District Eight. You remember. Who tried to help protect Peeta Mellark in the Third Quarter Quell, but was slaughtered in the bloodbath. We've finally found her children at last."

The president brightened. "Excellent!" The Capitol had been ridiculously disorganized ever since they took control of Panem again. They'd kept track of every person there was before the Nightlock Rebellion, but now, they were slipping up, trying to keep track of everyone, overseeing new babies that had been born. The Capitol appeared to be right back on its feet, but President Sunn knew better to think that. They were getting sloppy. They'd had to check the changes Paylor had made in her fifteen-year rule and then change them back. It had taken more than a year to find out Annie Odair even had a son at all.

"Also, Mr. Sunn, the arena," Tiger Lily said.

"Yes, what about it?"

"We finished it last week," Tiger Lily said. "I believe you'll like it."

President Sunn wasn't sure whether he would like it. Fairy tales seemed a bit too harmless for his taste, but at least they were…unique.

"Christelle offered to show you it," Tiger Lily said.

"Oh, yes, I'll see it later," President Sunn said absently.

Tiger Lily beamed and handed him a piece of paper labeled _Report on Children of Cecelia D8, _but Sunn didn't read it. He placed it carefully on his desk. When he looked back up again, Tiger Lily had already vanished. The girl really did have an impressive amount of nerve, though he decided that the word "immaturity" should be substituted for that.

President Sunn smiled.

_Let the Games begin, children._

* * *

_A/N: This was agonizingly boring to write. I mean, there was at least some feeling in the last two chapters. I want the rest of my tributes now, before I have to write one more filler. They're just samples, so you can get a feel for my writing style, and cover what happened after the rebellion. Also, I could use four more bloodbaths- but if you make one, please don't make it blatantly obvious they're bloodbaths._

_Also, sorry for the Taylor Swift lyric at the beginning of the chapter. I'm sick to death of Taylor Swift songfics, but I couldn't help myself. __So far, I absolutely adore the Careers this year. Really, I do. I love love love the Careers I have so far. Everyone seems to be avoiding D2 for some reason (my favourite Career district), and I still need my D1 boy to finish the District One reapings. When the D2, D1, and D3 spots are filled, the first reaping chapter will be out._


	5. Reapings: Part I

_A/N: At last, the reapings begin! Are you excited? ...I am, but also praying that I won't screw up. I'll cram in as many reapings as I can per chapter- I want to get to the Games, of course. Also, the times shown at the beginning of the chapters may not make any sense, but I put them there for the sake of it._

_Also, for my poll on whether I should write this in third person or first, third person received seven votes. First person received five. For those who voted for first person, sorry about that. Two people voted for "switch between first and third," so I apologize if you wanted to see that. Oh, and you know how I include a random sentence for the beginning of each chapter? During the reapings, I'll include one sentence for each tribute instead that tells a bit about them._

_I don't own the Hunger Games._

* * *

**The Eighty-Fourth Annual Hunger Games**

* * *

_District One, 7:26 A.M._

_Some people will do anything to survive. Anything._

Eighteen-year-old Damian Mylak stuffed another apple in his roomy satchel. He stared at it in frustration. It still looked so empty, he wanted to throw it to the ground and stomp on it. Hard. The small pile of coins he possessed had been reduced by ninety percent already. A stream of profane curses ran through his head.

_Fine, then, _he thought. He'd have to improvise. His eyes flickered over to the apple merchant, who was still rummaging through a pile of money much larger than his.

He was probably one of the poorest families in the district- in District One, that left a lasting impression. He was a scrawny boy who had longish rusty red hair, dull, emotionless olive eyes, and heavily tanned skin. Damian's eyes were always sad, and a near-permanent hostile scowl was plastered to his face. He was unapproachable- not that he was noticed often.

Damian paused, pretended to look occupied, and dashed around a corner. He crouched in the shadows, waiting.

"Hey, how are ya, Bob?" a voice asked.

"Just fine. Gotta wrap up now," Bob said. That was the apple merchant's name? Huh. "It's almost reaping time, anyway, so I have to leave. Nice talking, 'bye."

Bob came around the corner, walking and whistling like he hadn't a care in the world. Damian felt a surge of jealousy. He gritted his teeth and prepared himself.

He flew toward the merchant immediately. Bob's eyes grew huge, and he was so startled he dropped his sack of apples- it was strangely convenient for Damian.

In a flash, he was gone, and so was the sack.

* * *

_No one is what they really seem to be._

_Thwack. Thwack. Thwack._

"Ha!" Iridescent said triumphantly. "See, Loli, my aim is better!"

Lolita Versacci pursed her lips. "I don't know. That last one seemed a little off." She peered carefully at the target, which was bristling which so many knives it resembled a porcupine. Iridescent's knives had silver-painted handles, whereas Loli's knives were painted gold. The fourteen-year-old looked closer to twelve than any other age, deceptively small and innocent-looking, with thick waves of dark brown hair that she kept cut to her biceps and large, light blue eyes. If someone looked carefully- though people never so much as gave Loli a second glance- they could see that glint of a hard edge in her eyes.

Iridescent sighed. She was sixteen, absolutely gorgeous, and she turned and picked up another knife. The training room was utterly empty other than Iridescent, Loli, and their friend, fifteen-year-old Gleam, who looked a bit on the bored side. Iridescent and Gleam were the only two people Loli dropped the act of an innocent little girl around.

"Come on," Gleam said. "It's almost reaping time."

Loli smiled wickedly. "Exactly." She chucked another knife at the target, imagining it as the face of a person. The knife hit the bulls-eye. Nonexistent, crimson red blood gushed down from an eye that wasn't there. Satisfaction crept across her face.

"We still have a few more minutes," Iridescent agreed darkly. She was at least half a head taller than Loli, which didn't bother the young girl in the least. Another knife landed less than a centimeter from the previous one.

Loli shook her head. "No. I win." She picked up another knife. The target was so riddled with holes she wasn't sure it had enough room to take another one.

"Save it for tomorrow," Gleam said with a shrug. "There's a life outside training. Come on, let's go."

Loli eyed him doubtfully, but let it go. "Fine. See you both at the square."

Lolita walked out the door first, not bothering to see where Iridescent and Gleam were going.

Her father, Marble Versacci, had trained for the Games when he was a kid, but he had never actually been able to go to the Games, making him all the more ambitious about Loli getting in. As for her mother, Heart, she was the one who helped Loli improve her acting skills. They were both very supportive.

Loli's smile turned vicious. She hoped no one saw that. That wouldn't help when she was trying to build an "I'm just a harmless little girl" image. One slip could tear that all down.

She slipped through the door of her home noiselessly and called out, "I'm home!"

A voice answered, "Good. Come up so I can prepare you for the reaping."

Loli sighed and joined her mother upstairs in her bedroom. They were a family that was quite well-off. Heart smiled and showed her a long, light green cotton dress. "I think this one would work best, dear. What do you think?"

Normally, Loli wouldn't really care- life was about more than clothes. But it was cute and innocent enough to pull off a more angelic appearance, so she smiled and nodded. "It works."

She put on the dress and smoothed it carefully, then a little white jacket for good measure.

* * *

Damian dropped off the satchel at his house. His younger sisters, Rosie Lyric Mykal and Lynn Marcia Mykal, were arguing. They were young seven-year-old twins, with dull, plain blue eyes and blonde hair. They looked nearly identical, but were different as could be. In a short summary, Rosie was a pessimist; Lynn was an optimist.

When Damian was nine, his mother had been mistaken for a notorious criminal, and was shot in the head by a Peacekeeper- back then, it was during the days the Capitol didn't reign, after the Nightlock Rebellion. But the Capitol rebels had gone in hiding, and one of them had been the one who killed his mother. In short, Damian held a grudge against the Capitol for it, and he knew if he ever found the Peacekeeper who shot his mother, they'd be in for one hell of a-

His train of thoughts was cut off when his sisters abruptly ceased arguing and snatched the apples away from him and ran off, taking one apple with each of them and giggling. They ate savagely, munching on the apples.

Damian didn't say anything. He already had his reaping clothes on, his usual worn black fedora, black combat boots, t-shirt, sweatshirt, and pants. He'd been wearing them when he bought/stole (both) the apples. It was doubtful the apple merchant would identify him at the town square; he'd been too fast. His outfit was dull and drab compared to the overtly colorful clothes those rich kids at the square wore, but it wasn't as if he actually cared how he looked.

He grabbed an apple, took a ginormous bite out of it, and strolled toward the square.

* * *

At the square, Loli said a quick hello to Gleam and Iridescent, then looked around in her fourteen-year-old section. Some back in the thirteen-year-old section were crying, and plenty in her fourteen-year-old section looked incredibly nervous, though all around not too worried. Loli felt a flicker of disgust, but she brushed it off and pretended to act like she was nervous too, maybe even more nervous than the rest of them.

The escort, a maniacally cheerful woman Loli didn't understand, introduced herself and how happy she was to be here. She went through the beginning as quickly as she could, clearly excited. Loli didn't blame her- District One was an exciting place when it came to the Hunger Games. Someday, Loli would be on that stage, too. Despite her anxious facade, she leaned forward in anticipation.

"Lolita Versacci!" the escort announced.

Loli blinked. Then a smirk crossed her face, but she wiped it off as quickly as she could. _Well, looks like I get my wish sooner than I thought_. She walked stiffly to the stage.

"Any volunteers?" the escort asked. Loli looked shakily at District One, who peered up at her like she was some sort of interesting specimen. Immediately, the sections for the older girls exploded in chaos as several of them clamored to volunteer.

"No," Loli whispered. Then, more loudly, with a trembling, insistent voice for good measure, "No! No volunteers!"

The escort gave her a strange look. The entire district fell into speechless silence almost immediately. Loli hid a smug smile.

"Are you sure, dear?" the escort asked.

"Of..." Loli faltered. "Of course I'm sure."

_Oh, District One, don't be stupid. Do you really think I'm that weak? _Loli thought disgustedly. In her short fourteen years of life, she'd been playing off the innocent angle. Honestly, people had to be smarter than that. But after all, Loli's acting skills were near flawless. The only people she dropped the act around were Iridescent and Gleam. And, of course, her parents.

Speaking of Iridescent and Gleam, they were staring up at her. They seemed proud of her, though definitely caught off guard. Well, Loli had been caught off guard, too. But she was going into the Games anyway. Why should she wait?

* * *

_Weak, _Damian thought disgustedly. _That girl is weak. _Although he had to give her credit for not accepting volunteers. But she was most definitely weak. How foolish.

"Damian Mylak!"

His first thought was a snarl of, _It's NIMBUS, my name is NIMBUS, _when he realised he'd just been reaped.

People were milling about, not knowing who he was- obviously- when the crowd broke into immediate chaos.

"I volunteer!"

"No, I volunteer!"

"I VOLUNTEER!"

"BACK _OFF!"_

Some colourful profanity was woven into the words, but Damian called, "No! I'm Damian Mylak. And it's _Nimbus. _My name is _Nimbus. _And no volunteers!"

The crowd was shocked enough at the prospect of there being two tributes who refused volunteers this year in a Career district, and District One at that. But nevertheless, Damian stalked out of his section and onto the stage, glaring- as usual- at the entire population of District One.

He looked at the innocent girl that was his district partner. She was trembling violently, looking at him with fearful eyes. He could swear he heard her whimper. Her eyes glistened.

Weak. It was kill or be killed.

* * *

"Nimbus!" Lynn burst out. Her face was stained with tears. Normally, Damian would have gone and said, _Deal with it, _but this time, he didn't. "Why didn't you accept any volunteers?"

"If I win, we won't be poor anymore," Damian told her. She was hugging him, along with Rosie, and it irked him. He wasn't the type to hug anyone.

"Refuse the Career invitation if they give you one!" Rosie said. "Oh, District One seems so…so…"

_Not District One-ish this year,_ Damian guessed.

"Be okay," his father said somberly. He was extremely harsh, but not always. Damian knew he'd had a lot of tesserae, taking tesserae for his sisters, himself, and his father every year, but he knew he could have accepted volunteers. But the fame, the glory, or ore specifically the money- it would be worth it.

He didn't notice when his father handed him an adjustable chain necklace with an onyx skull and crossbones. It was a family heirloom- his great grandfather had married a Peacekeeper, but they'd spent so much money on frivolous things there was no money left for their descendants. It had been a fashion craze back then.

"It's your district token," his father told Damian. "Nimbus, strangle people with it if it's passed through."

Damian just barely heard. Because something had occurred to him.

If he won, he might just have revenge on the Capitol.

* * *

Naturally, Loli's parents came first.

"Loli," her father said matter-of-factly, not seeming concerned in the least for his daughter. "Avoid the Careers."

Lolita shrugged. "Fine."

"Pull a Johanna, he means," Heart said. "Act like you couldn't kill to save your life. If you find an ally, stab them in the back first chance you get, dear."

The endearment sounded unrealistic with what Heart was saying. Marble scowled. "I'll speak for myself. Act like you're just a sweet little girl. The Careers will fall for it and reject you. Hide, kill, use all you've got. Surprise the crowd. They'll love you."

Loli nodded, noting this information carefully in the back of her mind. She'd planned to do that. A vicious smile stretched across her face. _Oh, how I'd love to see the surprise on the Capitol's faces, _she thought delightedly as Heart and Marble rushed out the door. Iridescent and Gleam came next.

Iridescent was flippant about it, and a little envious. Gleam didn't seem too concerned.

"I'm happy for you," Iridescent said, though her eyes were cold. It didn't matter, since Iridescent was that way most of the time. "Win. If I'm entering the Games, I don't want you painting a bad image for District One."

Loli smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. "Don't worry. I'll win." _After all, the reason I want to go to the Games at all is so I can prove who I am. They'll never see it coming._

"What she said," Gleam said. "Oh, yeah, and you'll have to come back to finish your contest with Iridescent."

Loli blinked. She'd forgotten. Well, at least that was a bit more incentive. Not that she needed any. "Count on it," she said.

* * *

_District Two, 8:01 A.M._

_Some influences are not so healthy._

Seventeen-year-old Vanth- well, Vanitas- Helix yawned sleepily, discovering that she was the bed's only occupant. She cursed, jumping up and pulling on her clothes as quickly as she could.

At five feet six, Vanitas was very beautiful, with curves in all the right places, almond-shaped, olive green eyes, light, chestnut brown hair in a pixie cut with side bangs, and a very nicely toned body. Inside, not so beautiful.

"Dante!" she called to her on-and-off boyfriend- well, they weren't really a couple. He just pulled heart strings. Not that she didn't like it. "Where are you?"

"Dining room," he answered. "Aren't you up early, Sleeping Beauty?"

Vanitas rolled her eyes and dragged herself out the door, trying to clear the morning haze out of her vision. She wasn't exactly fond of mornings.

But fortunately, this morning would be special. The day she would volunteer. After all, she had trained for this. The Games were her life. Vanitas wouldn't wait until she was eighteen, thank you very much.

Her friends were sitting around Dante's breakfast table. He was the leader of the pack, which he took plenty of pride in. None of them were eating, instead sharing a few smokes. Vanitas snatched one off the table and lit it.

"So," she said nonchalantly. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for the reaping?"

Avarice, the youngest, shrugged. "Who _cares_?" she said. Her voice sounded a little cruel for that casual sentence. Vanitas had a special fondness for her. "Doesn't matter," Avarice continued. "Besides, we've still got half an hour or so. Fifteen minutes, maybe." She continued to talk- she rarely ever held her tongue.

Curls of smoke caressed the air. No one seemed too bothered by the poor oxygen levels in the room.

Before Avarice finished talking, Vanitas said, "Well, my parents probably want to know where I am." She wrinkled her nose. As if. She didn't care.

"C'mon, Vanitas, stay longer," Gluttire said, yawning. She had something clasped in her hands. Vanitas couldn't tell what it was, but she figured Gluttire must have stolen it on her way over to Dante's house, which was typical of her. She liked to pickpocket.

"No, I have to go," Vanitas said coldly, throwing her cigarette to the floor and stomping on it. "I'm volunteering this year."

"Good luck," someone else said, but Vanitas didn't hear as she headed out the door.

* * *

_Not every Career wants to volunteer._

Eighteen-year-old Lysander Caverly hadn't been aware a ten-year-old girl could have so many problems to vocalize, but his little sister, Annalise, had quickly proved him wrong. He wondered why he was taken by surprise in the first place. She was always like this.

As she babbled on for the millionth time that week, he listened attentively. The girl was a verbal freight train. Perhaps this wasn't the express- she could go on for hours and hours at a time. As Lysander prepared himself for the reaping, Annalise continued to talk. She was a bubbly, charming girl no one ever refused, constantly bursting with energy.

"Lisie, it's almost reaping time," Lysander said patiently. He occasionally enjoyed listening to his sister- being more of a watching person than a talking one- and he cared for her, but he disliked being late.

"A minute, Lyly!" Annalise protested. She pronounced _Lyly _as _Lily. _She was the absolute only one allowed to call Lysander that. As she chatted for a period of time that was most definitely more than a minute, Lysander checked the clock. Annalise's mossy green eyes grew larger while she continued to talk. She appeared to be fascinated with her own speech as she tried, in vain, to smooth the wrinkles out of her green reaping dress.

Lysander rarely saw his parents, but he knew they were going to make sure he was going to volunteer this year. It was his last year, and they'd given him no choice. His father was a Peacekeeper in District Eight, but his mother, also a Peacekeeper, saw him a little more- she was right in District Two. They were pushing him hard to volunteer, and he was beginning to dread it.

* * *

Vanitas enjoyed a fight. She loved the sight of blood and tears. She would always want to get in a fight and would spring at the slightest opportunity.

But she wasn't about to do that to her _annoying, irritating, stupid little a-_

Brother. Her _brother._

Vanitas was not known for her self-control. As thirteen-year-old James Helix followed her, talking with a hazardous volume that was approaching screaming, she spat at him, "Leave me alone, you _spoiled _brat." She clenched her teeth, a small dash of red tainting her vision. James could win a prize for being annoying.

Naturally, this made James talk even louder.

She stabbed a makeshift target with her sword. This target was actually an old piece of furniture, but Vanitas knew her parents wouldn't mind. She pretended the furniture was James' face, which would have made her feel better except for the fact her brother's voice was very clearly coming from behind her, not in front.

She pretended he was a ventriloquist who could throw his voice. In her opinion, he wouldn't be smart enough to do that, but it helped. Soon, the furniture was completely shredded.

"James, leave your sister alone!" a voice commanded, far more fierce than a normal mother's. The smirk on James' face faded, much to Vanitas' satisfaction. The Helix siblings whipped around to meet the confident, unwavering eyes of their mother, Andromeda, a harsh woman with a loud attitude (mentioned attitude often made Vanitas wonder how she ended up marrying a humble, quiet person like her father).

"James, go put on your reaping outfit," Andromeda ordered. She showed Vanitas a long, soft dress. "Vanitas, put this on. We're going to be late to the reaping, and you're volunteering. We can't have that."

Vanitas didn't know who _we _was, exactly, but she obeyed, albeit reluctantly. Vanitas was not one to follow orders, though she did have a relatively good relationship with her mother.

* * *

Lysander was known to be a distant and cold person (which he was), so occasionally people wondered why he would end up making friends with Maxton Denvers, who was a playful, outgoing, cheerful, and somewhat fickle boy- he always seemed to have a new girl every single day- who had no more interest in the Games than he had interest in a fairy tale.

Max was animated and chatty today, which Lysander didn't mind, just like Annalise (except Max didn't talk about the same things Annalise did). They walked toward the square. Annalise had stayed behind so her mother and she could go to the reaping together, since both of them would be in the section for those who weren't eligible for the reaping. Max didn't seem concerned in the least about being reaped, and he had no cause to- this was District Two. Max didn't know Lysander was going to have to volunteer.

Normally, Lysander would pay careful attention to the overtly cheery escort, but this would be his seventh reaping, and he figured everything the escort, the mayor, and the only victor there was from District Two- Ralph Lavender, who had recently married and had just had a baby, a male infant- wouldn't be too important. Ralph had won the Eighty-second Hunger Games, and despite his harmless and slightly silly name, there was a hard glint in his eyes. Lysander chose to divide his attention between Max and the people on the stage. Peacekeepers were giving Max dirty looks, so Max lowered his voice.

Finally, the escort was over and done with, and she strode confidently over to the glass bowl for the ladies, stirring up little gusts of wind as she tried to fish out a piece of paper.

"Sierra M-"

"I VOLUNTEER!"

Lysander located the source of the voice immediately. There was a tall, pretty girl in the crowd. Her eyes looked wild. She looked vaguely familiar, but Lysander couldn't place her.

"Why, a volunteer! How wonderful!" the escort exclaimed, like this didn't happen almost every year. "Come up to the stage, dah-ling!"

Capitol accents.

The girl, about seventeen years old, hurried up to the stage. Lysander spent most of his time observing people, so as soon as he got a clear image of her, her name clicked in his head. _Vanth Helix. _Or Vanitas. Lysander knew every piece of little information flitting around about her- they weren't just rumours, they were true. Vanitas had an impressive streak of sadomasochism, constantly getting into fights. She was a bad influence. She was on the savage side. She was uncontrollable.

She was his district partner.

* * *

Vanitas waited, wondering who her district partner would be. She hoped he would be a challenge- it was no fun to have easy prey. Or a companion that was boring. She peered at the face of her mother, whose eyes were shining with undiluted pride. Her father looked concerned, which she felt insulted over.

"Reed Catley!" the escort announced dramatically.

Vanitas expected a fight to break out. It had happened quite a few times- she remembered Ralph Lavender leaving other volunteers an impressive amount of broken bones, since his reaping was the only she could remember. Vanitas wanted something exciting.

Silence. Strained silence. Reed hadn't even shown himself. The tension in the air, however, was so immensely thick Vanitas could cut it with her sword. It was like District Two was waiting for someone.

_Well, obviously. They're waiting for a volunteer. But why is no one volunteering?_ _Oh. Hesitation, probably._

Then a voice rang out clearly over the crowd, the tone absolutely freezing cold.

_"I volunteer."_

Someone emerged from the crowd immediately. He was eighteen years old, tall, with slightly long walnut brown hair that almost looked black and restless, mossy green eyes that kept flitting from place to place. Vanitas didn't know his name, but she'd seen him a few times before. He was called egotistical, apathetic, and rather unnerving at times.

He didn't look too unnerving to Vanitas. Not the normal District Two tribute, but most definitely not unnerving.

_Okay, _she reflected. _V__ery cold, but not unnerving. Very, very, very cold._

Not that she was scared. She was going to win this thing, and victors never got scared. She glanced at Ralph Lavender, who sat in his chair, looking bored and unimpressed.

A savage fire fueled her. Vanitas Helix would win the Eighty-fourth Annual Hunger Games, no matter what the cost.

* * *

"'Sander!" Max burst out. Lysander's parents hadn't bothered to come, which was probably more Lysander's fault for being so distant than their own. At any rate, the tribute wasn't too bothered. "Why didn't you-?"

"Lyly!" Annalise cut in. "Look, here's your district token." She held up a silver charm bracelet, which had only one charm- a single heart. "I could only afford one," she added, pouting, as Lysander graciously accepted the bracelet.

"Thank you, Lisie," Lysander said evenly. He met Max's bright blue eyes. "I had to volunteer. My parents wanted me to."

"You could have told me-"

Lysander said, "It would have ruined your mood."

Max was clearly thinking. He didn't want to end on bad terms with Lysander (Max did have confidence in him, but there was no guarantee he'd make it back, optimistic as Max was), but he was still mad. But before he decided, Annalise burst out, "Group hug!"

Lysander wasn't exactly the type to hug someone, but Annalise certainly was. She threw her arms around him excitedly. Max joined her reluctantly, but the hug didn't last long. The doors burst open.

"Out."

Annalise kicked the Peacekeeper and protested, "Thirty seconds!" Max said to Lysander uncertainly, "Bye, 'Sander."

"Good-bye."

"Win, Lyly!" Annalise said as she was dragged away.

* * *

"Vanitas!" Andromeda cried in delight.

Vanitas smirked as her family rushed into the room. Andromeda looked absolutely delighted. James looked bored. Her father looked concerned, which annoyed her. He never took any credit- she thought this was weakness- and apparently he didn't think she could make it out, either.

"I'm so happy," Andromeda said. "You're finally getting in!"

This was followed by James making a face.

Andromeda dominated the conversation the entire time while Vanitas' father, Nion, just watched her with concern. "I can't believe it. You've finally gotten in. Go in there and kill as many as you can! Give the Capitol a good show. And don't worry about that excuse for a district partner. I heard he didn't even want to volunteer. I expect you to come back, Vanitas. Don't disappoint me. I really can't believe this. You're going to win. You will, Vanitas. Believe me, you'll do wonderful. I-"

She was interrupted and dragged out, though not without some resistance- well, a _lot _of resistance. James followed her- a bit too eagerly- but Nion stayed behind.

"Be safe," he told her quietly, and left.

Vanitas' lips curled into a sneer. A person like him would never get through the Games.

Next was Dante. She'd been expecting all six friends to come, but she supposed not. Dante told her, "They wouldn't allow so many people in." He dropped something into her lap. It appeared to be a bracelet with seven charms on it, forming a nonsensical string of letters: _viadigs. _They looked vaguely familiar-

Oh. _Oh. _The first letter of each of the seven's nicknames.

"Good luck," Dante told her, though he didn't seem to care. He seemed to think for a moment, then smirked and kissed her full on the lips.

When Vanitas opened her eyes again, he was gone. She snorted. She wouldn't be thrown off that easily.

* * *

_District Three, 8:34 A.M._

_Intelligence will only go so far._

"I wonder what's the arena this year," nineteen-year-old Darren commented.

His younger sister, fifteen-year-old Brinn Copperfield, shrugged. "Well, I don't want to be the first to find out." In truth, she was pretty worried about being reaped, but she didn't show that. She didn't want to get endless reassurances and promises which might be broken, anyway.

The Copperfield siblings were busy discussing the mechanics of the Games. Brinn figured if she was reaped, she'd probably be the smartest tribute, though she didn't think that it would go very far, and her charm and charisma wasn't about to save her from dying. She was a short girl with large, bright gray eyes and straight, shoulder-length, jet-black hair.

"Brinn! Darren!" a voice called. "Get downstairs for the reaping!"

Brinn yelled, "Coming, Mom!"

She glanced at the random little invention she'd been absently crafting on her bed. She wasn't sure what it was actually supposed to be, but she figured it could be useful. She decided she would leave it there and finish it when she came back.

* * *

"Brinn, wear this to the reaping," Mrs. Copperfield ordered her daughter.

Brinn nodded. "Sure, Mom." She changed into the long, dove gray dress and opened the door, stepping outside. Her parents were head technology inventors in District Three, and because of them, Brinn had learned all there was to learn about technology and inventing.

As she jogged toward the square, she was met by her best friend, Nessa, who was in her usual wheelchair. Nessa had been injured in a factory when she was ten years old, losing the use of her legs, and she and Brinn had been best friends since birth. Her parents worked with Brinn's, and like her, Nessa was extremely intelligent.

"Hi," Brinn said softly, seeing Nessa's worried expression. "You're not going to get reaped."

Nessa's eyebrows furrowed, but she said, "I have approximately three slips. I do have a chance of being reaped."

A knot of dread formed in Brinn's stomach. "You won't."

Nessa shrugged, clearly trying to act nonchalant. Brinn knew that if Nessa was reaped, she wouldn't stand a chance. In her opinion, it was another cruelty of the Capitol. What kind of people made a kid in a wheelchair go fight to the death? Along with dying, Brinn dreaded losing Nessa more than anything.

"I'll volunteer for you if you get reaped," Brinn offered.

Nessa's eyebrows shot up. _"What?"_

"I will," Brinn said, more firmly.

Nessa blinked, still trying to register this. "No, Brinn, d-"

"See you at the square," Brinn told her. She dashed off before Nessa could say anything.

* * *

_Bad things happen, whether you believe it or not._

"Mom, I'll be fine!" Jasper Odin protested as his mother fussed over him. His best friend, Marcus, watched him with a dry expression. Jasper shot Marcus a pleading look, like, _Help me!_

"Uh, April," Marcus said to Jasper's mom. "I think he's fine."

"But my little boy has to be prepared for the reaping!" April Odin protested, skimming over various sets of clothes, even though what Jasper already had on would suit him fine.

"I _am _prepared for the reaping, Mom!" Jasper argued. He was a tall but scrawny sixteen-year-old boy with short, spiky black hair, dark brown eyes, and tiny, wire-rimmed glasses. "I really have to go. I'll be late!"

The first two sentences flowed right over April's head, but the last one managed to get her attention. She pouted. "Fine," she said. "But be all right!"

Everyone seemed completely convinced Jasper wouldn't get reaped. He was convinced himself, not out of overconfidence, but because bad things simply didn't happen to him, and he didn't think it would happen now.

As Marcus and Jasper left the house, he grumbled, "Moms. So pushy these days."

"Nope, just yours," Marcus said.

Jasper shrugged and passed a group of people. He waved at them, a friendly gesture, and called, "Hi!" No one gave him a response- after all, it was reaping day- but Jasper simply continued on.

They got in line. Jasper avoided flinching when his finger was pricked and headed toward the sixteen-year-old section with Marcus.

* * *

Brinn flinched as her finger was pricked, but ran off toward the fifteen-year-old section. Nessa was nowhere in sight. Brinn felt a slight pang of guilt. She should have helped Nessa wheel herself to the square. It wouldn't be easy weaving in and out of the anxious crowd that milled about.

"Ahem!" The bubbly escort cleared her throat. "Welcome, welcome, to the Eighty-fourth Annual _Hunger Games!_" Her crimson red fingernails trailed along her microphone uncertainly. "I…the Capitol has brought you an excellent film," she said, straightening her posture. Her ridiculously tall high heels clacked along the wooden stage as she paced back and forth in front of the district, who stared up at her nervously.

She introduced herself and clicked a remote, letting the usual film about _loved them, fed them, protected them- _"them" meaning the districts- play, with all that garbage. It had also been recently edited to include the Nightlock Rebellion, showing a shot of a handful of berries that Brinn knew weren't nightlock, but did vaguely resemble them. There were clips of savage war- bombs, guns, Squad 451.

The escort wiped a nonexistent tear off her cheek, then pretended to get her bearings and said, "Ladies first."

She hurried toward a huge glass bowl and rummaged around quickly, fishing out a single slip of paper.

"Brinn Copperfield!"

_No._

_No._

_No!_

Brinn's ears were ringing loudly, but it was already too late. She'd heard the name. The name that belonged to her.

* * *

The girl who had been called- Brinn, Jasper remembered- looked terrified and angry. He didn't blame her. He felt a tinge of sadness at seeing her mount the stage, completely absorbed in watching Brinn. Her fists were clenched tightly and her movements were stiff. She was glaring furiously at the cameras.

He didn't even notice when the escort moved to the boys' bowl.

"Jasper Odin!"

Had someone called his name? What was going on?

"Jasper Odin!" the escort repeated, more loudly.

Jasper registered the slip of paper in the escort's pale hand, which she was staring intently at. She opened her mouth to repeat the name, acting impatient.

The crowd around him was stirring around, their faces relieved and full of pity. Marcus' eyes appeared to look ready to fall out of their sockets. Shock crossed Jasper's features.

_No, no, no…act…act-_

Jasper put on a pretense of being brave and unfazed, but he knew he was far from that.

* * *

Marcus looked grim and unhappy when he shuffled in.

"Where's Mom and Dad?" Jasper asked, hurt they hadn't come.

"April fainted," Marcus said quietly. "Everyone thinks she went into shock when your name was called. Your dad is trying to help her."

"Will she be okay?" Jasper asked anxiously, though he should probably be more worried about himself than anyone else.

"Yeah, everyone thinks so," Marcus said, though due to the fact he popped in the word _thinks, _Jasper was not reassured. "Are you going to be okay, man?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," Jasper said, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine. I'll…I'll come out again."

_I hope so, _Jasper thought, a whole lot less optimistic than he was on the outside. Marcus didn't look too reassured, either. But nevertheless, he said, "Promise to come back."

"I promise."

"Swear on…on…"

"I swear on that jar of jelly beans we saw yesterday at the candy shop," Jasper blurted. Marcus blinked. Jasper was still making jokes while he was hurtling toward his doom.

"Okay, then," Marcus agreed, a hint of a mischievous grin flickering across his face. "If you ever get discouraged, think jelly beans."

* * *

Much to Brinn's surprise, Nessa, Darren, Nessa's parents, and her own parents all came at once. When Darren and her had been discussing the Games earlier, she wasn't sure they'd gone over how many people were allowed in the Justice Building.

Nessa was sobbing her eyes out. Emotions seemed to flood the room. Brinn didn't see how this helped her survive, but such a massive display of concern for her made her feel a little better.

"Here," Nessa said. She was fumbling at something around her neck. She unclasped it and handed it to Brinn, who saw it was a silver necklace. Nessa made a strangled sound, choking out something like, "District token."

"Thank you." Brinn's voice trembled.

"Win them over," Brinn's father said.

"Win who over?" Brinn asked, but she already knew.

"The Capitol. The audience. The tributes! Be as charming as you can."

"But I hate the Capitol." _Well, Brinn, who doesn't?_

"Th-thank you, Brinn," Nessa's mother said. She was rapidly scrubbing at her face, trying to clean tears off, with her lace handkerchief. "You were like family to us."

Just then, the doors opened. "Get out," a Peacekeeper said rudely. Brinn recognized him as the person who had suffered from an invention she'd made when she was younger. She was guessing he held a bit of a grudge from that when half his garden was flattened. But she'd only been six years old.

Brinn held onto the silver necklace like it was her lifeline, throwing her arms around Nessa. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough room for a group hug.

"Win!" Nessa called as she wheeled away. "Win, if not for you, then for us!"

* * *

_A/N: If anyone would like to know, here's the way I kill off tributes so I am unbiased. I put all the names of tributes on slips of paper, with the exception of bloodbaths, and then randomly pick one to see who dies next. That should be fair. I'm just getting this out of the way. Also, I abused the line segment. I wrote this very late at night and was typing like my life depended on it when I was writing the last reaping, so sorry if anything's screwed up. __And a bit about each tribute._

_I'm not too fond of Damian, but he's a very…interesting character. Loli, personality-wise, seems extremely similar to this character I created a year or so ago, so I wrote her the way I wrote that character. I found Vanitas extremely difficult to write and am afraid I severely messed her up. I can't say much for the ones from District Three, but they're two of the few tributes I've already planned ahead for.. Lysander I also found difficult to write, though nowhere as much as Vanitas._

_When Lysander mentioned Ralph Lavender and his child, I'd like to say the baby is Julius Lavender, one of the two future protagonists of one of my unpublished Hunger Games fics. (I don't actually have time to publish the fic on FFN yet.) Also, the reason that there's only been one victor from District Two is because since all the victors from the 1st Hunger Games to the 75th Hunger Games were killed, there would technically be only seven victors so far, which doesn't leave much space for each district to get many victors._


	6. Reapings: Part II

_A/N: District Four is my flat-out favourite district this year. No contest. And NO, it's not because the girl is my sister's tribute. I love District Four. I really do. Also, why do people consider District Four the weakest Career district? Is it because the D4 boy died in the bloodbath during the Seventy-fourth?_

_I don't own the Hunger Games._

* * *

**The Eighty-fourth Annual Hunger Games**

* * *

_District Four, 9:06 A.M._

_Different. Violent. Strange. But not crazy._

"Mum, _no! _I'm going to keep the streak!"

"But honey-"

"It's not inappropriate for a reaping!" sixteen-year-old Cymopoleia Blue Wavea snapped. She was already wearing her reaping outfit- black combat boots (much to her mother's dismay) and a plain brown dress (much to Cymopoleia's dismay).

"Oh yes, it is!" her mother snapped right back. Cymopoleia had already spent over an hour getting in a debate- no, an argument- with her mother over whether to remove the dyed turqoise streak down the left side of her hair or not. She'd switched between coaxing (which she failed at), reasoning (though you could never call her reasonable), pleading (well, not that one), grouching (she did it twenty-four-seven anyway), screaming (not too hard), and threatening (well, her version of it, anyway), but finally just did what she did best: being stubborn.

People almost never won an argument with Cymopoleia, which she took pride in.

"Honey, you're going to volunteer today!" her mother, Bertha (oh, how she hated that name), protested.

"Life is not about how I look!"

"First impressions are lasting impressions!"

"My point exactly!"

"So you want everyone's lasting impressions to be that you're some emo?"

It was hilarious to see someone like her mother say _emo, _but Cymopoleia burst out, "I'm not! They can have their impressions, but they will _pay attention to me!_"

"But Cymo, dear-"

"I hate that nickname!" Cymopoleia argued. She resisted the urge to kick her mother in the shins. Bertha would probably have a heart attack if Cymopoleia treated her to any of her…_unique _vocabulary. Cymopoleia had been named after the minor goddess of storm waves in Greek mythology, daughter of Poseidon, except that _that _Cymopoleia had been married to a giant, and Cymopoleia didn't think she'd be caught dead marrying anybody.

Cymopoleia had choppy, shoulder-length, jet-black hair, pale ivory skin, and wide-set sea green eyes. She changed the color of the dyed streak down the left side of her hair monthly- much to her parents' chagrin- and had a spray of freckles across her nose. She was one of the smallest girls she knew, five feet four and barely one hundred ten pounds.

Cymopoleia proceeded to storm out of the house rather dramatically (typical) and screech, "I'm not removing the streak!"

There. Another argument won.

* * *

_He's perhaps not the best person alive, but there's no one to say he doesn't think so._

Eighteen-year-old Ceres Sometimes was absolutely bored out of his mind.

And impatient, of course.

His girlfriend, Ginger Darling, gushed on and on. "Ohmigosh, Ceres! I can't believe you're finally going to volunteer. This is fantastic! Make sure to come home. I bet your family will be so proud of you. I am! I-"

Well, Ceres wasn't really listening. Ginger was cute and ditzy and could be fun to have around, but at the moment, he didn't feel like joining in on the conversation. Of course, it wasn't as if he needed to. Ginger could carry on an entire conversation by herself. She got excited easily- the exact opposite of him- and could go on and on and on and on and on and on for hours. When Ceres didn't feel like talking, Ginger did it for him.

He had short, wavy, wheat blonde hair and dark green eyes, with a light tan. Said eyes showed off how incredibly bored he was- as usual- but Ginger was apparently unable to take a hint.

"Ginger," he said, a little quietly.

Ginger didn't hear.

"Ginger," he repeated, more loudly. It was like she'd drifted off into dreamland, but still talking.

"Ginger!"

"What?" Ginger asked, finally stopping her seemingly limitless chatter.

"I have to go."

* * *

Cymopoleia stalked off to the reaping square when she heard someone say her name.

"Cymo, hey!"

She hissed at the group of people coming toward her. She'd probably show off her broad vocabulary, but she couldn't talk to all of them at the same time. They were her…_friends. _They weren't bad friends, really. They didn't start any nasty rumours about her- indeed, some of the rumours passed around about the girl with the dyed streak and the loud opinions, as Cymopoleia was referred to often, were getting absolutely ridiculous- and they were fairly loyal, albeit not particularly close. They were mostly just a circle of friends who fought a lot- they were about as organized as Cymopoleia's bedroom- but defended one another, too. Due to Cymopoleia's…_interesting _personality, she didn't have an extremely close friend.

She quickly located the person who had called her that accursed nickname, a loud, overexcited, and slightly psychotic girl named Leah Rivers. She was grinning from ear to ear- she looked overcaffeinated with such a happy grin. (Cymopoleia knew what she was talking about when it came to caffeine.) Leah wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but brighter than she appeared. She, like Cymopoleia, had a pretty nasty temper. Some people thought she was bipolar.

"So, volunteering this year, huh?" The boy in front raised an eyebrow curiously.

"Well, duh." Cymopoleia made a face.

"Figures. You never had any patience."

"I'm sixteen!"

"You're not exactly the star student," the boy- Austin Hannen- pointed out. "Maybe two years-"

"Shut up. Time's just a number."

"That's the same excuse you use when you procrastinate on homework," Leah said, though the sheer happiness in her tone didn't match her words, which often made Cymopoleia wonder if she was stable. "Oh, yeah, that boy- what's his name, Demeter?"

"Ceres," Austin supplied.

"Right. He's volunteering. Ceres Sometimes."

Cymopoleia almost blurted something along the lines of, _He's only Ceres _sometimes? _Then what is he the rest of the time? _Then she realised Leah meant his last name.

"Oh, him," Cymopoleia said sarcastically. "Cue the applause."

"You never even met him," Austin said dryly. "Well, you did 'cause he was in your…I forgot which grade."

"Fifth grade class," someone said from the back of the group. "His little sister, Moxie, is in your class, remember?"

Cymopoleia sighed. If she was going to win the Games- well, she wasn't all hyped up about it, exactly. She wasn't one of the I-have-no-life-outside-the-Games Careers, but after all, her training came down to this. She had to. Everyone expected her to (well, not everyone). Also, she just wanted to prove she could do it. No, she _needed _to prove she could do it. People _always _underestimated her. It would also give her an excuse to go up to her bossy, overbearing parents and say, "In your faces, Mom and Dad!"

But it didn't matter who her district partner was. Cymopoleia wasn't evil enough to manipulate anyone (er, maybe) and then throw them away like she'd just lost interest in a toy she'd begged her parents for as a kid. It didn't matter who her district partner was, because no matter who he was, she would win the Games if her life depended on it.

…Which it did, come to think of it.

But so much more depended on it.

* * *

"Ceres," Moxie said, stepping back to stare up at her brother. She was exactly sixteen years old, and looked so much like her brother it was frightening.

Ceres was wearing his reaping outfit- a light green button down, tan slacks, and leather shoes that were shined to the point of near perfection. "Yeah?"

"Cymopoleia Wavea is volunteering," Moxie said matter-of-factly.

"The crazy one?"

"The what one?"

"You know…the one who climbed onto the school roof in ninth grade and launched a protest by herself on how Panem took Christmas away from us, complete with a faux reindeer sleigh? The one who went and swam out to sea to snap a photo of a shark because one of her friends dared her to? The one who decided to stop talking to teachers for a week because of too much homework?"

Moxie was taken aback. "Uh, yeah…that's her."

"I'm not afraid of someone like Cymopoleia Wavea going into the Hunger Games."

"Good." Moxie smiled and threw her arms around Ceres. "Love you, big brother. I'll miss you." Then, before he said anything, she stepped back and narrowed her eyes. "This might be the second-to-last time I ever say that, so don't you dare gloat on it before it becomes the last time."

Ceres laughed, which was fairly rare. "I won't. Come on, it's reaping time."

"Oh!" Moxie exclaimed. "I promised my friends I'd be there as soon as possible. Gotta go!"

She dashed out the door, and Ceres followed.

* * *

Cymopoleia normally was bored to death (figuratively, of course) during reapings, though she often did have fun mocking the escort's extravagant outfit later and imitating the Capitol accent. During the reaping when she was fourteen years old, she'd recorded the escort saying "May the odds be _ever _in your favour!" and then proceeded to put audio tapes of it in the training centre. She hadn't even been caught, though the audio tapes eventually ran out of batteries and died.

But now, she felt so anxious. She'd basically made the decision to volunteer on a random impulse. Before, she'd been taking it for granted, but now it was official. Cymopoleia made decisions in a minute and didn't pause to think, but now she was very fully aware of how close she was coming to making this complete.

It seemed every word the escort, the mayor, and District Four's only mentor- Erin Alexis Celesto, who was a few days away from being married- took an hour to say.

To Cymopoleia, the worst death of all time, the one she preferred least, was death by boredom.

She was quite literally about to screech "_Would you get on with it?!_" (it wasn't the craziest thing she'd ever done) when the escort finally cried, "At last, we shall select the female tribute that will be sent to the fight of honour and sacrifice we arrange annually!"_  
_

Fancy way of putting it. But Cymopoleia wasn't going to be _selected. _

"Leah Rivers!"

Well. That was odd.

Cymopoleia didn't hesitate. She was fast as lightning (well, she liked to think she was).

_"I volunteer!"_

Her voice rang clearly out over the crowd, loud as ever, the same way it did when she voiced her opinions- and she always voiced her opinions.

But it was shadowed by another cry, barely a quarter second before her announcement- another _"I volunteer!"_

Cymopoleia didn't even register the voice. She had already taken off.

* * *

Ceres' day had been going all right. His best friends, Lack and Holladay, were in good spirits, and he was relaxed, drifting in and out of daydreams. He knew he'd be snapped out of it quickly by one of his friends. They'd gone through a lot with him, having been friends with him since they were all kids.

He knew the voices who volunteered- the first was Cymopoleia. He had to give her credit for getting to it first. But the second was Rosana Klarke, an eighteen-year-old who had wanted to go to the Games more than anything. Rosana Klarke was also renowned for being one of District Four's leading airheaded popular girls. Not to mention the daughter of the mayor and as spoiled as a Capitol kid.

"I-I'm sorry, darling, but…" the escort faltered under Rosana's piercing glare. "This girl- this girl volunteered first. If she relinquishes it to you, then-"

Cymopoleia was about to clamber onstage when she whipped around, sea green eyes blazing with such determination Rosana took a step backward from her spot in the aisle. The amount of spirit the first volunteer possessed was impressive.

"Oh, no," Cymopoleia said, eyes narrowed, just the way Moxie's had been, but much more dangerous. Her voice was barely contained, and though Ceres had never even talked to her, it was likely a miracle in itself that she wasn't already shouting, from what he'd heard. "No. _I volunteered._"

She wasn't just talking to Rosana. She was talking to all of District Four.

She turned back to the stage and yelled, "Do you hear me? _I volunteer! __I'm _going to represent my district, and _no one _else!"

She sprinted onstage, standing next to the stunned escort stiffly and glaring at her district like she wanted to rip every single person into shreds, one by one.

* * *

Cymopoleia smirked, satisfied with herself and the shocked looks she received. How she loved attention.

The escort flounced over to the boys' bowl uncertainly in those ridiculous high heels. She snatched out a single slip of paper, not bothering to stir around her hand dramatically. Cymopoleia guessed she was eager to get to volunteers.

"Francis DeMount!"

"I volunteer!"

Cymopoleia couldn't tell who said it first. Voices clamoring to volunteer erupted everywhere in the section for the older children. She didn't know what Ceres Sometimes looked like, but apparently, he hadn't been the only one who wanted to volunteer. Perhaps a last-minute change of decisions?

Nope. There he was now. He seemed just barely vaguely familiar. He sauntered casually through the crowd as if he didn't have a care in the world, shoving aside anyone who got in the way.

"Why, a volunteer!" the escort exclaimed, as if this didn't happen almost every year. "What's your name, darling?"

He said into the microphone she handed him, "Ceres Sometimes." He made his name sound slightly like a challenge, looking over at Cymopoleia with an unimpressed expression. Cymopoleia glared at him. _Bring it on._

When they shook hands, Cymopoleia dug her nails in as deeply as she could. She could feel the tiniest droplet of blood ooze out, but Ceres didn't even flinch. His grip was undeniably strong and may as well have stopped her circulation, but Cymopoleia wasn't going down _that _easily.

* * *

Cymopoleia wouldn't let her parents see her. All she'd get was a hysterical round of tears and gushing, plus a bunch of silly precautions, so she told the Peacekeepers to say she loved them- sort of- and that she'd be okay, and she'd done just fine with her turquoise streak, thank you very much.

Her sort-of friends weren't allowed to come because there were too many of them, but they sent a message, just one word, on a scrap of heavy, expensive white paper: _"Win."_

Cymopoleia held onto the paper. Her district token.

* * *

Ceres' family, friends, and girlfriend all burst in at once. Ceres was forced to immediately listen to endless chatter much worse than Ginger's that morning. Voices faded in and out. "I'm so happy…this is actually happening…do anything to get home…you will get home, right? I…Ceres, promise you'll…"

Moxie affectionately presented him a puka shell anklet for his district token, and the only thing he listened to was when she said, "Go out there and get them, Ceres."

He would.

* * *

_District Five, 9:38 A.M._

_Happy to make others happy._

Sixteen-year-old Irena Blink laughed. "Hyacinth, no!"

Hyacinth blinked, immediately snapped out of her daydream. "What?" she asked innocently.

"Pay attention," Irena said playfully, pushing her away. "You can't be daydreaming again, can you?" She smiled and hugged Poe Allen, her boyfriend. "Good luck at the reaping!"

Unlike the majority of the population of District Five, Irena and her friends weren't very concerned about the reaping today. They were optimistic, really. They didn't have many slips in. Sure, there was that tiny little underlying tension in Irena, but she brushed it off. She didn't need to be so negative.

Irena was a small, lithe, pale girl with shoulder-length, wild orange-ish red hair. Her hair, at the moment, looked as if an electric current had been sent through candy floss, which wouldn't be good since people were supposed to look fancy, or at least proper, at a reaping. She was wearing her reaping outfit already, black pants and a white lace shirt, nothing too nice.

Maize, a more sensible girl, looked concerned, with this calculating look in her eyes, as if she was trying to figure out the exact mathematical odds of Poe, Hyacinth, Irena, or her being picked. But of course, the Hunger Games weren't mathematics. No matter what the _logical_ odds were, it all depended on luck.

"I'll be okay," Poe promised, kissing Irena on the cheek briefly. She blushed. She'd spent just a year or so with Poe, and was already one hundred percent convinced he was "the one."

"Yes, you will."

* * *

_Being nice won't save anybody._

"Grandma," fifteen-year-old Jakob Wilhelm said comfortingly. "You'll be okay."

Jakob's grandmother, Idylla, was sniffling and sobbing, blowing her nose and wasting an unnecessary amount of tissues. Jakob was drawing on a piece of paper, sketching a field of daisies, hoping it would help.

"The Hunger Games," Idylla sniffled. She'd been more haunted than anybody by the Nightlock Rebellion. She was roughly eighty years old, and Jakob had heard she had nightmares about it. She was small and frail, but kind, and told Jakob stories. He had asked Idylla about the rebellion a few times, but she disliked talking about it, and asking now, as curious as he was, would be pushing her over the edge at the moment. Jakob didn't have any friends except his grandmother.

"I won't be reaped. Christelle wasn't reaped," Jakob said softly, referring to his older sister, who seemed to get more tired every single day from her difficult job at the power plant. Jakob had to work there, too, but he always seemed to have find to be drawing on the side. He finished his sketch and showed Idylla it.

"It's beautiful," Grandma said. "But it won't save anyone from the Games."

This had to be bad for her nerves. Nevertheless, Jakob put on a reassuring smile and attempted to make it look like it wasn't forced. He certainly was worried about the reaping, too. "But Grandma, we're all going to be fine."

Jakob was too shy to talk to anyone his age. He always considered the small children that frolicked around him and the elderly citizens of District Five sort of like an extended family, but he was never able to talk to anyone who was his age. He had long, dusty ash blonde hair and pale blue eyes that were always wide-eyed and could pass for gray from afar.

Grandma didn't look at the drawing anymore, so Jakob stuffed it in his pocket.

* * *

"Irena Blink!"

It wasn't too hard to find this Irena girl, because a girl in the crowd burst into tears right away. Jakob felt sorry for her immediately as people parted away from her, forming a small path. Their faces were drawn were relief. _Irena Blink. _Jakob knew that name. It was the name of a girl from his kindergarten class. She'd always been happy and energetic, talking every opportunity she got, but that was all Jakob remembered.

Right now, Irena looked neither happy or energetic. She was still crying on the stage, apparently not caring if anyone saw her. The escort patted her arm comfortingly- as if it was actually going to help- and asked for volunteers. As soon as she asked, Irena paused for a millisecond, locked eyes with someone in the crowd, fresh tears welling up in her eyes.

The escort patted Irena's arm again. The wind whistled. The crowd was silent. Of course, no volunteers.

The escort stepped lightly over to the bowl for the boys. Jakob held his breath as she picked out a slip of paper, opened it, and read aloud the name that written so carefully on it.

"Jakob Wilhelm!"

No. _Nononononono._

Jakob was shocked. Speechless. And most definitely not in a good way, the way someone would be at a surprise party (well, if they liked parties). This could not be happening.

Hysteria and sheer panic welled up inside him.

Jakob forced himself to hide his emotions, biting down hard on his lip. He stepped toward the stage as the sea of faces around him gave him more space to walk. The escort noticed the movement and smiled at him in an unnervingly friendly way.

"Well? Come on!"

Step by step, step by step, he knew he was walking toward his death.

* * *

Grandma Idylla was the color of snow. The veins in her neck stood out like tree roots. In short, she was in absolute hysterics, making Jakob extremely concerned about her heart. Forget about asking about the Nightlock Rebellion, _this _would push her over the edge.

She was clutching a necklace with a small, intricate, silver key on it, saying something about district tokens. Taking this meant she wanted Jakob to have it, he gently took it from her.

"I don't know what it opens," Grandma said, clutching at her heart. "I had it during the Nightlock Rebellion."

At the words _Nightlock Rebellion, _she fainted.

Jakob swallowed. He had the drawing of the field of daisies in his pocket, and now he fished it out. He pressed it into the hand of his older sister. Christelle stared at it like it was something she'd never seen before.

"Keep it," he said. He blinked back tears. "In case I don't come back."

* * *

Irena's family came first.

Irena's mother had been crying. She told her to come back, that she _had _to come back. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and so were Irena's. Her father was stoic and silent, staring off into space. Her older sister, Druella, who was eighteen- Irena remembered how she'd looked like she would volunteer. But Irena wouldn't have let her, anyway. Druella was usually quiet and reserved, but she was talking, talking so fast that in Irena's anxiety and sheer dread of the Games she didn't hear.

And then the Peacekeepers dragged them out, and she hated them for taking away her family. She was getting one last glimpse of her loved ones, and now they were being ripped away from her. Irena couldn't win.

Then her friends came in.

Irena accepted a simple silver ring from Poe. She stared at it with wide eyes.

_It's…it's an engagement ring. It's..._

The four friends stood around in silence. They spoke quietly, calmer than her family. Giving her soft good-byes, asking for her to come back as soon as she could.

_But all the requests in the world wouldn't make me come back_, Irena thought sadly as her friends left.

* * *

_District Six, 10:00 A.M._

_Expectations will disappoint you._

"Ella, what if I'm reaped?" eighteen-year-old Clover Legion asked worriedly.

"Clo, that's silly. It's your last year. Why would they choose now to pick you?" Ella said.

"But still, I could be reaped."

"Hey, I'm in my last year, too," Ella said. "They haven't picked either of us."

Ella was supposedly Clover's sister, but they knew better. Clover's mom had died, and she had to pretend her aunt and her cousin- who was Ella, of course- were her mother and sister, so Clover wouldn't wind up going to the community home. So far, the story had worked, and it wasn't as if many Capitol people would come by and ask.

Clover stared at the book in her hand. She liked books a lot more than she liked being around people, other than Ella. She'd been reading the book for a while now, but she couldn't be as absorbed and fascinated by the rich, meaningful text as she usually did, not with the reaping approaching all too quickly. She could practically visualize the Games hurtling toward her like a freight train, with herself frozen in front of it like a deer caught in the headlights of a car.

"What would I do if I went into the Games?" Clover asked.

"Clo…" Ella hesitated, then decided not to say _You won't go into the Games. _"You should run," she said finally. "Hide. Run, hide, find food and water."

"That's it?"

"Kill if you have to."

Clover, a slim girl with large green eyes, tanned skin, and golden hair, stared at her book. She remembered the Eighty-third Hunger Games. The Careers had been one of the most organized and dangerous Career alliances in history. Every single one of them made it to the end, and upon the last corpse, they'd turned and battled each other, right then and there, until only one was left standing.

Every year, the Gamemakers tried harder and harder. And they succeeded. The things Clover had heard about Christelle Cambria, and before her, Gracieux Northwood...

Clover had watched Christelle's other Games that she'd controlled, the Eighty-third Annual Hunger Games. She'd sent in mutts that lopped off one limb of a tribute at a time, then drank the gushing spurts of blood, packs of muttations that surrounded a person and ate away slowly for hours while no one could even see the tribute, only hear screams. She'd even seen a tree that strangled a tribute like something from some horrific movie on…what had that holiday been called? North America was supposed to have celebrated it. Oh, yes, Halloween.

Clover wouldn't look forward to being in the Eighty-fourth. Being exactly the space of a quarter century from the nightlock the Mockingjay presented her district partner, it was undoubtedly a year of bad luck.

_Oh, stop being pessimistic. You won't be in the Games. No one said so._

_Yet._

* * *

_Lives depend on a single slip of paper..._

Fifteen-year-old Damacio Garek tucked another piece of food into his bag for the celebration after the reaping. He didn't think he'd have enough money, sure, but what he could get, he got.

"Damacio!"

Initially, Damacio wouldn't be fond at the idea of chatting. He simply wasn't social. He spent most of his time with his family. His father was dead and his mother worked all the time, but he had two little sisters and one younger brother. But he recognized the voice- pretty much the only close friend he had, other than his family. His next door neighbor.

A wagon roared by, stirring up a mud puddle so that fresh mud stained his dark blue dress shirt, which was supposed to have been for the reaping. He turned, and his neighbor ran hastily right through the mud puddle. "What are you doing here?"

His friend shrugged. "Same as you. I need to prepare for the feast after the reaping."

"If neither of us get reaped."

He grinned, in a lot better mood than Damacio. "Ah, don't worry. Neither of us will get reaped! What are the odds?"

Damacio smiled, hiding his worry. He had taken tesserae, five for each year, and it piled up to a number too high for anyone's liking. "The odds aren't bad," he said. "Come on, let's go to the square now. I'll drop off the food at my house."

* * *

_Don't let Ella get picked, don't let Ella get picked..._

"Clover Legion!"

Clover opened her mouth, her eyes widening. No sound came from her. She stared numbly at the escort.

_Clover…Clover, you had a lot of slips. Move!_

She stepped toward the smiling escort, who motioned her forward with her too-long fingernails, so curved and sharp they looked like talons. Clover couldn't help but think of a bird of prey swooping down upon her.

She shuffled onstage, closing her mouth, her eyes feeling like they would fall out of her sockets.

_Wait…_She located Ella in the crowd, locking gazes with her. _Ella, why aren't you volunteering? I thought you'd always be there for me._ Hurt filled her, which quickly transformed into anger. She'd thought her cousin- no, they really were as close as sisters- would always help her out. But Ella just watched her with sad and bitter eyes._  
_

When the escort asked for volunteers, she thought, _Ella, this is your last chance._

Ella said nothing.

The escort smiled brightly at the somber population of District Six and moved on to the boys' bowl.

"Damacio Garek!"

There was a gasp somewhere among the silent crowd. Clover didn't tear her eyes away from Ella, consumed with fury. But out of the corner of her vision, she glimpsed a boy that lumbered up to the stage, his expression shocked. He was practically dragging himself forward, as if a puppetmaster was controlling him and he was the puppet.

_Puppet. That's what we all are. The puppets of the Capitol, who are pulling the strings._

Then she realised the boy was much taller than her, though he'd come from the fifteen-year-old section. He had a large, bulky frame, with curly black hair, a deep tan, and dark brown eyes.

The escort commanded- it sounded like a command to Clover- that the two tributes shake hands, and so they did. Clover looked up into Damacio's eyes, and despite the fear, grimness, and shock in them, there was kindness.

Kindness. That wasn't anything someone was about to get when they were in the Games.

* * *

"Clover, I'm so sorry," Ella said, coming forward to hug her. Her mother, Fawn, was just two steps behind her. Then Ella immediately stopped at Clover's expression, causing Fawn to almost collide with her. At the last moment, Fawn regained her balance.

Clover stared at Ella coldly.

_You didn't volunteer._

The only two minutes left that Clover would ever have to say good-bye passed in silence. Ella dropped her favourite necklace- shaped like a rose- next to Clover's seat, telling her it was her district token, but Clover didn't touch it.

_You weren't there for me._

* * *

Damacio's little sisters were just five and six, and they couldn't yet quite understand the concept of the Games. They hadn't even been alive during the reign of President Paylor, though Damacio and his brother had. His brother was only eight, and being only one since the Capitol took back over Panem again, he hadn't formed any lasting memories, but Damacio had.

All three siblings, however, had some vague notion that the Games were very bad and that they were more than just a game, and that Damacio would not come back. This seemed to have proved to them at their mother's grim, stoic silence.

"Here!" his youngest sister proclaimed eagerly. "Da-ma-ci-o has tu come baaaack!" She had some problems with her garbled speech and pronounced every syllable of his name carefully, like she'd rehearsed it. She yanked a bead off her bracelet- her favourite bracelet- and dropped it into Damacio's hand.

Damacio forced a smile. "Thanks."

"We can leeeeve in the BIG houses if Da-ma-ci-o comes baaack!" the youngest sister nearly shouted, insistence in her high-pitched voice. She was talking about the Victor's Village, though at the moment, it was empty.

Damacio avoided the eyes of his mother. They were tearing up for the first time he'd ever seen. "Yeah…I'll come back. We'll live anywhere you want."

* * *

_A/N: I'm afraid I kind of rushed on this. My parents are cutting down on my writing time and I'm experiencing a somewhat writer's block. Also, some people seem unaware that this is after the second rebellion. It kind of showed on the form. But thanks if you reviewed before, and thank you in advance for if you're going to review!_

_I tink my good-byes are getting shorter. Is it just me, or are there a lot of tributes who have sisters?_

_Also, I have a poll on my profile page concerning how you would prefer to die in the Hunger Games. Morbid question, I know, but I'd like to see what you think._


End file.
